Bedford Square

by Anne Perry

He sighed. “I suppose we shall never know. The man must have had a life quite separate from anything we guessed. I have never found myself so mistaken in anyone.” He gave a very slight laugh. “When I was worried about the orphanage in Kew, he was the one I wrote to.”

  “What worried you?” she asked, not that it mattered; it was simply something to continue the conversation.

  “The money,” he replied, smiling at her ruefully. “It all seems terribly trivial now. It wasn’t even a large amount.”

  “Missing?” she asked.

  “No … quite the contrary. I thought we were not giving enough … enough to meet the demands, that is. Perhaps I am a trifle naive as to how one may manage if one is skilled in housekeeping. I daresay they have a good kitchen garden. I have forgotten what children eat. I seem to recall rice pudding, plum duff and bread and jam. I suppose there must have been a great deal else.”

  They walked a little farther in silence. Five minutes later they had completed the circle and were back at the gates again. He stopped.

  “I …” He cleared his throat. “I … I am deeply grateful for your friendship.” He coughed, removing his arm from hers. “I value it a great deal more than you know—or than it is remotely suitable that I should tell you.” He stopped abruptly, knowing he had already said too much.

  She saw the passion of gentleness in his eyes, and understood all that he could never say and she should not have allowed to happen.

  She closed her eyes, not to meet his.

  “I acted on impulse,” she said almost under her breath. “Sometimes … in fact, quite often … I have more feeling than sense. I apologize for it. But I never believed you were guilty and I cared so much to prove it.” She made herself smile, still with her eyes lowered. “I am very glad that that at least has been proved. I wish we could have solved all the other things too, but they will have to remain as they are.” For an instant she looked at him, then after a moment turned and walked away back towards the gates and outside, knowing that he watched her until was she out of sight, but she could not look back. She must not.

  11

  PITT ARRIVED HOME late after seeing Vespasia on the way back from Kew. He felt deeply sorry for her. Nothing he had been able to tell her was anything but crushing to the last shred of hope.

  Now he sat in front of the empty fireplace in his parlor. The doors to the garden were closed after having been open nearly all day. It was still light, but there was a coolness in the air that could be felt if one were sitting still. The sweet smell of the neighbor’s new-cut grass lingered in the room, reminding him it was time he attended to his own lawn, not to mention the weeding.

  Charlotte was sitting opposite him, her sewing discarded. He could see from the rough shape of it that it was a dress for Jemima. There seemed so much material he recalled with a jolt how rapidly she had grown. She was not a little girl anymore, and she most decidedly had opinions of her own. That had come forcibly to his attention a few times lately. It made him think with sharp pity of Christina Balantyne, and brought an awareness of how time can change people and one can be too preoccupied to notice it. Girls grow up and become women.

  “Was there nothing at the orphanage?” Charlotte asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  He was pleased to be able to share his findings with her. It did not make it any better; it simply hurt less.

  “No. Everything was in exceptionally good order. I went through the books in detail. Every penny was accounted for. Not only that, but it was all clean and obviously well cared for, and the half dozen or so children I actually saw seemed happy and in good health, well clothed and clean also.”

  “But General Balantyne was worried about it.” She frowned slightly. “He told me that himself.” She looked at him very steadily, and he knew she was waiting to be asked when she had seen him again.

  He found himself smiling in spite of the gloom that he felt. She was very transparent.

  “Well, it looks as if he need not have been,” he answered. “I wish all institutions were as well run.”

  “He didn’t think they were misappropriating funds,” she explained. “He thought they weren’t using enough.” She took a deep breath. “But he did admit that perhaps he didn’t know very much about budgeting. I daresay he hasn’t much idea what you can do with things like potatoes and oatmeal and rice pudding, and of course bread.”

  “I assume he doesn’t know much about army catering, then?” he observed.

  “I didn’t ask,” she admitted. “I think honestly he was more troubled by his misjudgment of Leo Cadell. He truly liked him … and trusted him.”

  “I know,” Pitt said quietly. “It has wounded Aunt Vespasia profoundly as well. I think …”

  “Yes?” She was quick to respond, her face earnest.

  “You might visit her a little more often … for a while. At least offer to … somehow make it tactful.”

  She smiled a little ruefully. “It is not easy to be tactful with Aunt Vespasia. She can read my thoughts almost before I have them.”

  “Then perhaps you had better not try. Simply offer.”

  “Thomas …” she said tentatively.

  “Yes?”

  “What did he want? I mean, what was Cadell going to ask them all for? Was it just money, or something to do with Africa, as you thought?”

  “I don’t know. His note said very little. What puzzles me far more is how he knew about Slingsby at all, that he resembled Cole, let alone that he was dead.”

  “You don’t know?” She was startled.

  “No. I can see why he wanted Slingsby’s body to be taken for Albert Cole’s … to increase the pressure on Balantyne … but why not use the real Albert Cole? He would be far more likely to have met him. He worked in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where Cadell could easily have been. Any of the victims could have, and Dunraithe White assuredly has.”

  “Well, what happened to Albert Cole?” she asked, her face puckered. “Where is he?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Why didn’t he come forward when his death was reported in the newspapers?” she pressed.

  “I don’t suppose he reads the newspapers,” he answered with a smile. “He may not read at all.”

  “Oh. I never thought of that.” She showed a moment’s consternation at her own blindness, then hurried on. “Even so, other people do. And he isn’t anywhere in his usual places, is he? He’s gone from his lodgings and from the corner where he sold bootlaces, and from the public house where he drank. You told me that.”

  His brief moment of humor vanished. “I am afraid he may also be dead. Perhaps he died of some cause that didn’t suit their purpose.”

  “Such as what?” she demanded.

  “Illness of some sort or, for example, drowning. We could hardly blame General Balantyne for a drowned body that turned up on his doorstep.”

  In spite of herself she laughed. It was absurd, grotesque. But the moment was soon gone.

  “Poor man,” she said, more to herself than to him. “But that doesn’t answer how Cadell knew about Slingsby and just happened to be in Shoreditch at the time. What on earth would he be doing in Shoreditch at all?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure whether I need to know. I want to, but does it matter now?”

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation in her at all. “This doesn’t make any sense. You need to know at the very least what happened to Albert Cole. Just because nobody misses him doesn’t mean he doesn’t matter.”

  He did not argue. Perhaps it was the excuse he had been wanting.

  Pitt went to see Cornwallis in the morning. He looked a different man. The shadows of tiredness were still in his face, but the haunted air had gone from his eyes and he stood upright, his shoulders square again, and he met Pitt’s gaze almost eagerly.

  In the first moment after coming into the room, Pitt realized just how heavy had been the weight upon Cornwallis, how very sharp the fear. Now that it was gone, every aspect of
his life had changed again. Courage and belief in himself had returned.

  Pitt almost let it rest. Whatever had happened to Albert Cole, it could not be undone. Did they really need to know? Cadell was guilty, by his own admission. It filled all the facts. He was in a position to have gained all the information about the other victims. He knew them all from the Jessop Club.

  “Good morning, Pitt,” Cornwallis said cheerfully. “Excellent job. I’m most extremely grateful.” His expression darkened. “Although I’m damned sorry it turned out to be Cadell. I liked him. At least … I liked what I believed him to be. It is hard to discover that someone is not remotely what you supposed. It shakes your confidence in your own judgment. I used to think I knew a man’s character.” He frowned. “It was part of my job.”

  “Everyone was mistaken in him,” Pitt replied, standing a little rigidly.

  Cornwallis relaxed. “I am afraid so. Still, it’s over now.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you something else on your mind?”

  This was the moment to make his decision. There were too many questions. He thought of Vespasia.

  “No … I’m afraid it is still the same case. I’m not satisfied yet ….”

  Cornwallis looked startled, and dismay flashed in his eyes. “What? You can’t have any doubt that Cadell was guilty. For heaven’s sake, he confessed and shot himself. You can’t imagine he was doing it to protect someone else.” He spread his hands jerkily. “Who? If he wasn’t guilty, then he was as much a victim as the rest of us. Are you suggesting there was a conspiracy?”

  “No!” Pitt was beginning to feel foolish. “Nothing like that. I just want to understand how he did it—”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Cornwallis interrupted, jamming his hands into his pockets and walking back towards his desk. “It seems fairly clear now we know who it was. He knew us all reasonably well—at least at the Jessop, if nowhere else.” He sat down and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. He looked up at Pitt earnestly. “I can remember dining with him. I don’t know now what we talked about, but different places we’d been. I could easily have mentioned which ships I’d served on. From there he could have looked up my naval record. As a member of the Foreign Office he wouldn’t need much of an excuse.” He smiled bleakly.

  Pitt sat down as well, ready to argue when the time came.

  “Similarly, he could have looked up Balantyne’s career,” Cornwallis went on. “It’s amazing how comfortable one can get over a good dinner at the club.” He smiled a little. “You reminisce, and with a fellow you like, who is a good listener, maybe tells a bit about himself as well, you find yourself talking into the small hours. No one disturbs you or tells you it’s time to leave. He could have learned all manner of things about any of us.” He looked at Pitt with a sudden bleakness. “If you think it’s worth going to the Jessop and asking the stewards if they remember Cadell sitting up late with anyone, do so. But it would prove nothing either way. They could have forgotten, or it could have been somewhere else. Most of us belong to more than one club.”

  “I hadn’t doubted where he got the information,” Pitt replied. “A little conversation, some enquiries and then some imaginative guesses would be quite sufficient.”

  “The snuffbox?” Cornwallis said quickly. “He may have visited Balantyne’s home, but even if he hadn’t, I can remember Balantyne having it at the club, because I’ve seen it myself, when I think back. Not closely. I wasn’t paying attention. It’s the sort of thing you see but don’t see. I daresay Guy Stanley used his flask the same way. Some people prefer their own particular whiskey or brandy. I have half a memory that he liked a single malt.”

  “Yes, that’s all simple enough,” Pitt agreed again. “It wasn’t that I was thinking about.” How much should he say? Were Vespasia’s doubts anything more than the loyalty of a friend? “How did he know about Slingsby’s death in Shoreditch, and how did he get the body back to Bedford Square? More than that, how did he know Slingsby resembled Cole, and so would be any use to him? How did he get Cole’s receipt, and where is the real Cole?”

  “I’ve no idea why he was in Shoreditch,” Cornwallis replied with a frown. “The man seems to have had a life we knew nothing about. Perhaps he gambled?” His face creased with distaste, and there was an edge of exasperation in his voice. “He could have had a liking for bare-knuckle fighting or any of a dozen other things. Some men do. A darker side to the character. You must know that even better than I do. Perhaps he was there when Slingsby was killed, and saw his chance.”

  “To pass him off as Cole and leave him on Balantyne’s doorstep?” Pitt asked. “Why? Why take the risk of carrying him halfway through London in the middle of the night? And what happened to the real Albert Cole? Where is he?”

  “Obviously, Cadell was a man who liked taking risks,” Cornwallis said a little sharply. “It would seem his respectable life as a diplomat, married to one woman all his adulthood and always behaving with the utmost correctness, oppressed some part of his nature. I’ve known it to happen before.” Unconsciously, his hand on the desk clenched and there was an increased edge to his voice. “For heaven’s sake, Pitt, plenty of men behave like fools. Women too, for all I know.” He leaned forward. “Why do we gamble, drive carriages too fast, ride dangerous horses, fall in love with all the wrong women? Why do we even try to do something pointless and dangerous, climb mountains or pit ourselves against nature to test our strength? Nine times out of ten there’s nothing at the end of it except the knowledge that we succeeded. That’s all we want.”

  “And you think Cadell was that sort of person?” Pitt could not keep the doubt from his face.

  “I hadn’t thought so, no,” Cornwallis answered. “But I was obviously mistaken. I hadn’t thought he was a man to blackmail his friends for the sheer pleasure of exercising power over them and watching them suffer,” he added bitterly. “I can’t begin to understand why anyone should take delight in such a thing. I can only suppose he was in desperate need of money he’d lost gambling, and he intended to ask us all for everything we could afford when he was ready, when he was sure we would pay.”

  Pitt chewed his lip. “And where is Albert Cole?”

  Cornwallis stood up abruptly and walked over to the window. He stared out of it with his back to Pitt.

  “I’ve no idea. It’s probably a coincidence; he went away or died. It had nothing to do with Cadell.”

  “And the receipt?” Pitt could not give up, not only for Vespasia but because reason demanded better answers than he had.

  Cornwallis remained staring at the street. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps it was a mistake. The man in the shop was in error. Does it matter now?”

  Pitt looked at Cornwallis’s broad, straight shoulders. “Balantyne went to Cadell about the orphanage funds. He was worried they were insufficient.”

  Cornwallis turned around, puzzled. “Why do you mention that? What has it to do with … anything?”

  “It probably hasn’t,” Pitt confessed. “I went out to the orphanage. The books are perfect.”

  “Why?”

  “Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould still finds it very difficult to believe Cadell was guilty—”

  “Of course she does!” Cornwallis came back across the room, frowning with annoyance. “His widow is her goddaughter. It is difficult for anyone to believe someone they cared for could have been guilty of a wretched, vicious crime. I don’t find it easy myself. I liked the man.” He took a deep breath. “But the longer she resists it, the harder it will be to accept, and the more painful.”

  Pitt spoke more from emotion than reason.

  “If you think Aunt Vespasia is simply being an old lady who is refusing to accept an unpalatable truth, you know very little of her and underestimate her profoundly. She knew Leo Cadell since before his marriage, and she is a woman of considerable wisdom and experience. She has seen more of the world than either you or I, particularly of men like the ones we are concerned with.”
He had spoken more sharply than he intended, but it was too late to moderate it.

  Cornwallis blushed. For a moment Pitt thought it was from anger, then he realized it was from shame.

  Cornwallis turned away. “I’m sorry. I have the greatest regard for Lady Vespasia. My own relief has … has blinded me for a moment to the reality of other people’s grief.” His voice thickened with tightly suppressed emotion. “I want this to be the end of it so fiercely I cannot bear to believe otherwise. It has obliged me to think about a great many things, events and people which I had taken for granted most of my life … other men’s opinions of me I assumed I knew. Even my career has … still, that is hardly important now.” He let out his breath in a soundless sigh and turned back to face Pitt. “You had better find Cole … or at least have Tellman look for him. There is nothing else pressing … is there?”

  Before Pitt could answer that there was not, there was a sharp rap on the door.

  “Come in,” Cornwallis replied, looking towards it.

  The man who came in looked startled.

  “Mr. Justice Quade is here to see you, sir,” he said to Cornwallis. “He is extremely perturbed and says the matter is urgent.”

  “Send him in,” Cornwallis directed. “Pitt, you’d better stay.”

  Theloneus Quade appeared the moment after, and indeed, the clerk had not exaggerated. Quade’s thin, gentle face wore an expression of deep concern.

  “I apologize for intruding upon you, Mr. Cornwallis.” He glanced at Pitt. “Fortunate to find you also here, Thomas. I am afraid there has been a development I find disturbing—most disturbing—and I felt I should inform you of it in case it has meaning.” He looked abashed, and yet perfectly determined.

  “What is it?” Pitt asked with sinking misgiving, though with less surprise than he should have felt.

  Theloneus looked from one to the other of them. “Dunraithe White has just excused himself from a case he was scheduled to hear. It was rather an important one, involving a major fraud in one of the large investment trusts. His withdrawal will severely inconvenience everyone and delay the hearing until someone can be found to replace him.”